Reason or Feeling?
by Starlight10
Summary: Denethor strives to find answers through an unlikely -though effective- medium. If you never thought it possible, here it is: Denethor's poetry.
1. Default Chapter

Denethor finished packing the last of the items he had planned to take with him and quickly closed his saddlebag, then straightened his back and looked around his quarters to see whether he had missed anything, more out of habit rather than in true need. His eyes roamed about the shelves, drawers, bed, desk, and suddenly he found himself panting, in the middle of the room, saddlebag in hand and a great amount of empty space between him and the walls. He dropped the bag, ran the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe a few drops of sweat and walked toward the window so as to determine the time of day. Nature would not aid him much in that for the sun did not shine brightly then, though he gathered that it had to be about ten or half past, for the meeting with his father had ended but an hour earlier, only an hour earlier, and he had already ordered the company that was to travel with them, seen to the preparations of his own horse, dispatched a few letters to be delivered to some commanders up north, finished the annotations on the maps he was to leave his father, collected his own maps, and packed.   
  
His brows gathered and his lips curled in an odd gesture that was not a smile nor a sneer. Why was he in such rush? For once he had time to spare, which was a rare luxury, and now that he had the time he knew not what to do with it. It was still about four hours before he was due to depart and though he was eager to begin the journey, he could not expect that all the necessary preparations could be reasonably finished before then. So, he was doomed to wait, and in waiting he could do no more than think, and think he did about his errand and the reasons that would take him through the South Road to Pelargir instead of going on boat, which would have been the expected route. He smiled now as he thought of his father's slyness and his ability to conduct his business. Pelargir was proving troublesome, the integrity of its commander questioned, rumors of secret dealings with Haradrim merchants abroad, and he was sent to put an end to that. Then, he would leave Thorongil to deal with the merchants ere he journeyed on to Belfalas. A strange, unexpected thrill at the prospect passed over him, and he frowned. There the Prince awaited for the Steward's ordered inspection of the fleet stationed at Dol Amroth and an assessment of their strength were they to suffer from sudden attacks, which now appeared to be more likely given the state of their affairs with their southern neighbors.  
  
Alas, for the shadow lengthened with the day, and that certainty was heightened in his mind as he stared out to the Ephel Dúath whose peaks rose over the landscape like ragged teeth, the enemy's fangs and the gate to his stronghold. The mountains were dark, almost black even in daylight, and as one who had stood at their roots, looking at them from afar did not diminish their threatening power, though it made it less remote; but, those thoughts were forgotten as his gaze narrowed over a dark shape that swayed in the horizon. He leaned forward, his eyes following its path trying to determine what kind of bird it could be, when it flew closer, making a wheeling motion as it came. It was not until he heard the distinguishing shrill sound that he realized the creature's nature: it was a gull, one of the seabirds from Belfalas. The cry pierced something within him.  
  
Why had this bird lingered around the city in spite of the impending turn of the season was a question that he could not avoid to ask himself. He was not fond of birds, by all accounts, but had read something or other about them upon Finduilas' request.  
  
Finduilas...  
  
She did like gulls, and seemed to know a lot about them. It was natural, of course, having been raised on the shore where such sights are common and beloved. But gulls seldom came to Minas Tirith, and the thought had once or twice occurred to him that they came to grace the lady's visit, for which he was glad. After she had left, he had seen no more gulls, or sunlight, only the greyish sky that announced the waning of the year, though sometimes he fancied it meant, or should mean, something more, but he had shoved the thought aside.  
  
His mind had wandered back to Finduilas too much over the recent weeks; an idle thought, or so he deemed it, for it came without new knowledge or facts to enhance his understanding. It just came, and lingered, like a piece of wood that floats adrift upon the waves. That comparison made him snort; he was aware of how readily his own subconscious supplied him with images of water, shores, wind, gulls... and he thought of her and the strange, almost fey, incomprehensible gleam that shone through her clear eyes as she described to him the beach, the glittering waves, or how the wet sand felt below her bare feet. He observed her eagerly then, for the language of her body, more so than her words, provided him with countless clues to read and details to think about, and he had realized that he liked it. But, to dwell too much on those thoughts was a different matter entirely, and he found himself constantly pushing them aside. That very need caused him an unwanted anxiety.  
  
He sat on the window embrasure and, in an attempt to find a better way to occupy his time, stretched his arm toward the shelf and grabbed a book, opening it on the last page he had marked: _It is the nature of the human individual to refer to his body and mind as elements intrinsically joined together, for so they are; but so, too, are the bodies of animals or beasts. It is the privilege of man to be capable of making a distinction between those two elements and master them according to his will, for therein lies his difference with other creatures who let their appetites rule them. For a man to be whole, a perfect balance should be reached between body and mind lest, were he to lean toward one side or the other, he grow indulgent or heartless._  
  
"A perfect balance," he muttered as his eyes withdrew from the book and back to the world outside, but all he saw was a dull sky that had begun to look depressing. A deep frown creased his brow and he rose, only to realize a few moments later that he was actually pacing. He bit his lip and his arms moved behind his back almost of their own will, his fingers twisting with each other in a manner that annoyed him. From time to time his hand would stray to his hair, lingering on the collar of his shirt or his chin, then to return to its place behind his back. The cry of the gull still rang in his ears. And, the gulls only reminded him of her.  
  
The lady would not speak to him; at least that much was clear. He was soon to travel to Belfalas, where she would be thrown in his way, and she would not speak to him. Nay, he was doing her an injustice, for Finduilas was all that propriety ever required and he was the Steward's son, after all; he would not be slighted. But, she would not truly speak to him, not as he wanted, not as she had done before... before the disagreement.  
  
They had been in company together with several other folk from various parts of the realm, and an argument had arisen between him and one of the lords from Belfalas. He had been angered by the man's ignorance and presumptuousness, and saw it fit to teach him a lesson. What he said then, he could not fully recollect, but surely his reply had carried a hidden sting, a joke in disguise aimed to put him on his place while it was not perceived by the rest. But, among all those who heard, Finduilas, at least, had understood (wherein lay the irony of it all, for the comments seemed to have gone unnoticed by he who had been the object of them) and when his eyes met hers, he felt disapproval in her glance and something inside him stiffened, or raged, he still knew not which. It had been but an instant for her eyes strayed away ere he had a chance to read more, and for a flicker of a moment he doubted himself and his vaunted wisdom. When he next looked upon her, she had forced herself to smile, or so he read the tightening around her mouth, and that galled him even more. A few casual, clever, unimportant comments followed, but neither of them said aught about what had passed. The next morning she was gone without further word to him.  
  
Since that day he had been rather unsuccessful in his attempts to shake that image from his mind, that stern glance, that brief moment of doubt. He had done right in his handling of the man; of that he was sure. _Why then does my mind turn back to those events so often, without any seeming reason for it?_ No matter how much he asked himself, he found no answer but was left with more doubts. He was now uncertain whether he was more bothered by her glance, or by his hesitation when he encountered it. Had she noticed? Had Thorongil? Alas! For he could not know and regretted to have been so unguarded when others had the occasion to mark it.  
  
So it was that he now found himself soon to depart on a pressing errand and his thoughts dwelt more on the lady of Dol Amroth than in his own obligations. Nay, perhaps not on her, but on his thoughts of her which was worse, for that path would take him through confusing, tangled webs of reasoning which would certainly consume his time. _That matters but little. Either way, it becomes a distraction I do not want- I do not need._ And it was not like himself to allow distraction.   
  
"Valar...!" He flounced, almost, onto the bed like a boy. "Why should I care?" he said as he straightened the collar of his shirt. _If she is going to prove this troublesome, I ought to put an end to this before she is led to entertain any hope, or Father, for that matter. It could cause a diplomatic incident and I would not see myself entangled in such troubles... nor her."_ He nodded, but a smile that filled him with bitterness fleeted across his face, for he recognized within him a new something that both irritated and intrigued him. As much as he wanted to shake all thoughts of her aside, he also held on to them with the same vehemence, musing over them, turning them around in his mind, trying to find some root, some source to them, if there was one. _Why?_  
  
Her glance had disturbed him; that, at least, he had to acknowledge. Why? That was the question he should seek to answer first, among the myriad of them! Her glance had disturbed him... _And what of it? Naught, but that it had been uncommonly piercing, hard as steel, and yet her face had not looked hardened; rather, amazingly... tender, as if for the first time she had encountered something that truly shocked her._ His eyes widened at that notion. _Did she think me unfeeling? Nay, not unfeeling, but cruel?_ That could be a beginning, though hardly the one he looked for. Surely she had been witness to things more shocking than that! She had a keen wit and an eye for people, and was not so innocent as to be totally ignorant of the art of politics, clever enough to have practiced them herself, being the Prince's daughter. This set his mind somewhat at ease, and he raised a brow at that.  
  
He rose from the bed, straightened his arms and stretched, then walked back to the window and strained his eyes hard as he looked south. _That way lies Pelargir. I wonder what am I to find once I get there._ As much as his mind was attracted to riddles, there was a zealous affection when Gondor was concerned and his heart could not accept treachery of any kind on that regard, no matter how intriguing the prospect of solving any puzzle. _Would I be able to serve Gondor as I should, even when my mind is not wholly occupied on her?_ His fists clenched against his thighs and his gaze narrowed as he rested his head against the wall. All those feelings discomfited him, precisely because they were feelings and there was no way he could put some logic to them, try as he may.  
  
"A man who lets himself be ruled by his emotions has lost a battle," Denethor repeated to himself as if he were reciting a creed, or an ancient prayer. "Emotions are not bad in and of themselves, but the degree into which one feels them. It is right to feel anger, but not too much or too little; or excitement, but not too much or too little, and so on with the rest of the emotions, but those whose names indicate their inherent perversity. A man who aims for virtue must strive to realize what is the right degree of his own emotions and step not over or below that limit. Emotions can be mastered." But, to gain mastery over his emotions he had first to understand them, and how could he? It was hard to apply logic to achieve some measure of understanding for they could not be quantified, reasoned, bent at will. They were there, and that was all.  
  
"Order, logic, reason..." he murmured as he looked about him, his eyes quickly fixing on the chess set, then the bookshelf, the marble blocks on the mantelpiece, the knots and wooden sticks, trying to find a pursuit that would help clear his mind. "I need a scheme, a... a pattern, a pattern to my thoughts!" A pattern implies order, configuration, and order he needed to find for his own emotions. Once he had found a pattern, he would be in a better position to find a solution. He rushed toward the desk in front of the opposite window and sat. Words... why had he not thought of that before? Words were the one medium most suited to his tastes and abilities. Words would help him find a pattern of thought. Pushing aside a few papers, he grabbed a parchment sheet out of a dark leather box and, clutching the quill tightly amid his fingers, he hastily wrote:  
  
_Pattern_  
  
And below:  
  
_It is the pattern that is hard to find,  
not the emotion that takes o'er the mind._  
  
"Nay," he said, frowning, "not true."  
  
_It is hard to make out patterns  
out of reason undisturbed;  
How hard is, then, to unravel  
Disturbed patterns, one and all?  
  
Is a disturbed pattern a pattern, or not?_  
  
"I digress. Not philosophy, but poetry; I try to find a pattern! Perhaps, I should not write about the pattern, but the feelings behind the pattern I do not have, but seek to find," he stopped and chewed at the pen for a moment. "If it all could make some sense..."  
  
_Heartbeats are mere drums  
Their music rolls, but I frown  
confused by their grunts._  
  
_Cold glance. Disturbance  
you brought to me, unknowing.  
I thought you should know._  
  
Denethor narrowed his gaze over the words as the wet ink found its way into the thin holes of the parchment, smudging a little around the edges of his firm script. "Cold glance. Aye, for that it was! I have never felt such a chill before," he gave out a dry laugh, but the chill came back to him again. What was that? It was certainly new to him. He liked it not.  
  
_A new chill you brought  
and I like it not.  
What is it you thought  
When you looked up so?  
  
Your eyes then met mine  
but it was not fine,  
For deep in your glance---_  
  
"Glance, dance, prance..."  
  
_Your glance chilled my heart, as I ne'er believed  
The depth of your stare was as that of the sea  
Whate'er thought you then, to look thus at me?  
Your glance chilled my heart, as I ne'er believed,  
Such accurate aim to your arrows, indeed!  
Who knew but that glances, like arrows, could pierce?  
Your glance chilled my heart, as I ne'er believed  
The depth of your stare was as that of the sea._   
  
_Triolets present little challenge, though. Once you've found a pattern of lines that repeat, all you need is but half of the poem._ "A pattern, what is my pattern?" He stared back at the page again, and behind a few lines of bad school-boy's poetry, some words stared back. He read, "glance... chill... aim... arrows... pierce... sea?"  
  
_Feelings rage forth like waves in stormy sea  
and in their deeps conceal their truth from me._  
  
Couplets? They were easy enough. He sure could manage another one.  
  
_Waves hit against the stone, eroding swell;  
But rock stands firm and steadfast- all is well._  
  
_Rear not a wall, don't fence yourself in glades   
Stone suits you not; you're merrier with the waves._  
  
_Waves again._ He tapped his fingers against the desk. _I must stop this._  
  
_To she who takes my freedom and will to think, I say:  
If freedom is your priced reward, indeed, I am no slave._  
  
A slave? He would never be a slave! If he ultimately married the lady, he would not be a slave but a husband. All he had to do was press his case but a little and then he would be her husband, if he wished. She had too much sense to outright refuse him, but what was the point of entering into a marriage with someone unwilling? Where was the victory, the delight? He had to love her, and she him, for it to be a marriage. So, in the end, it came back to the beginning: Did he love her? The question struck him, not only for its very nature, but also for the strong desire within him that wished to see it solved. He had no answer. Did she love him? At times, he thought that she did, but he was by no means certain and that also disturbed him more than he was willing to admit to himself. Her eyes did look upon him with an intensity that was not their usual wont. Finduilas was sweet-spoken, gentle-hearted, kind to all; yet when she looked at him, he believed he saw her interest deep within the clear fire of her grey eyes. Why did she look upon him thus? Was he a riddle to her? He smiled at the thought but quirked an eyebrow at the prospect of having someone read him, of being completely exposed, and felt a sudden dread that was too deeply ingrained in him to be denied. Could she read him like that, like he tried to read other people? Had she tried?   
  
_The price to slavery is high; in this you know my feeling  
But freedom lost to love makes slaves of men, though they be willing._  
  
Love... there was that word again. Why did it keep coming in his writing? He thrust the sheet aside and reached for a new one. "Not a slave," he whispered. _She couldn't make a slave of me; no one can._ But, it was too early to be talking about slaves when he was uncertain about her mind on the matter. Did she want him? Denethor dipped his quill inside the black bottle and wringed out the excess of ink on the rim. Since Finduilas had left, he had received one letter or two; merely comments, facts, descriptions of things and places that he knew all too well, but naught about her or her thoughts, which he desired to know. Why would she not give them to him? He contained the impulse to reach for her last letter that lay still buried among a pile of documents and notes, and wrote instead.  
  
_Will and freedom gone away – hearken now what I say:  
Lady, slavery's not for me.-----_  
  
"No!" he cried, pushing the blank page away. "What an unbalanced linnod! What did I expect to find by writing this wretched silliness? I shall find no pattern if I keep playing with words like this. Pattern, interlocked verse, form, meter!" He rose from the desk and walked toward a table that was always kept ready for him with water for tea. Crushing some leaves on a cup, he returned to the desk and sat once more. He took a sip or two, put the cup to his side, and grabbed a new page...


	2. The Scale Leans

_This game of stares and glances that we play  
Disturbs the reason of my path and way;  
For though you look, and answer, and obey  
'Tis not your heart you're giving me today.  
  
Yet, should I scold, although I know what's true:  
That mine own heart I still share not with you?  
But mine's my own, and no one else should prove  
to wish to know much more than is their due._   
  
"Rubáiyát. At least this one involves more thought, more planning."   
  
_Soft rocking of the waves, a steady sight  
That warms the thoughts, but lacks worth to the mind  
Leaves one adrift, therefore can it be right?  
  
For even when her image's clear as light  
Repeats itself so much the eyes go blind!  
Soft rocking of the waves, a steady sight  
  
That, though it brings not comfort, brings delight  
It makes one lively, dizzy, like a child!  
Leaves one adrift, therefore can it be right?  
  
It takes reason away, turns day to night  
And stumbling upon stone grips forth to grind  
Soft rocking of the waves, a steady sight  
  
Appearing fair the mind to snare in flight  
For even though one thinks 'tis good and kind  
Leaves one adrift, therefore can it be right?  
  
And even when her image's clear as light  
All features drown in billows with the tide  
Soft rocking of the waves, a steady sight  
Leaves one adrift, therefore can it be right?_  
  
"Drown in billows?" He snorted, took another sip of tea and leaned back on his chair. _That is one of the strongest images I've produced. 'Poetry is the commingling of the abstract and the particular in the same plane of thought.' But there are so many flaws here it does not look like anything I could ever have written._ He glanced briefly at it, placed it on top of a pile of written parchment by his side, and took another page.  
  
_When your glance tells me tales that speak of truth  
I want to seize them, but you look aside;  
Aware that I may read you like a book  
You try, with words, to tell me otherwise.  
Thus showing what your lips would never tell  
The riddle that you are acquires more depth;  
And, by my thoughts concealing to myself,  
Your will to read me turns to mere attempt.  
Wherefore should we keep trying to suppress  
The truths our eyes scream, but tongues wouldn't say?  
For not to have you close brings me distress  
And when you want me near, I stay away.  
Therefore give me your heart to read at ease;  
Thus, solving each our riddle, we'll find peace._  
  
Denethor pushed his elbows against the table, propping his head on his hands. There it was! Or, at least a part of it. "Give me your heart to read at ease." Was that what he wanted? What was it he wanted, after all?  
  
_I seek an answer I seek to avoid  
What question, then? I really do not know  
No words yet come and aimlessly I trail  
Groping for meaning, content or just sense  
My mind denies what my heart seems to feel  
Through words, I'll state the truth that lies within  
  
For there are secrets, outside and within  
And deep, dark crevices the heart hopes to avoid  
Although, at times, reason seems not to feel  
Times also come when feeling does not know  
Is there a way to bend this to make sense?  
To answer this, all Middle-earth I'll trail  
  
And, if by chance or fate I have to trail  
through heights and depths, I'll always keep within  
the safety of my thoughts a gleam of sense:  
There's duty, honor, love I won't avoid!  
By oath I'm bound to Gondor, this you know,  
As husband is to wife, or so I feel  
  
What say you, then, to all these things I feel?  
Fumbling with feelings, words, I've lost the trail  
of certain, safer thoughts that I should know  
and tread. -----------------------  
  
Is there a balance between heart and sense?  
  
What lies in hiding, then, within the trail  
of rocks I feel and step on and avoid?  
I know that I should know- This makes no SENSE!_  
  
And he grabbed the page, crumpled it and tossed it away.  
  
_The wind has blown the waves to white and black  
Struggling to keep their pace, I stare and frown-_  
  
"No! No. That is not what I wish to say." _What do I wish to say? Do I say that she's disturbed me, that I think only of her, that I both want and dread to see her?_ And yet he had to say something and reached for his page to do it but realized that his hands were slippery with sweat and, trying to prevent the quill from slipping away from his grasp, he clutched it so tightly that it almost snapped in two and leaked some ink. He picked up the parchment and blew over it to help it dry, then added two more lines that were hardly legible because of the haste in which they were written.  
  
_Not knowing how to swim or to get back  
The water beckons, I take breath and drown._  
  
Drown. The word carried a lot of meaning but he was not sure he liked the connotations. Too much water imagery that was not appealing to him, and nonetheless it came. Perhaps he should seek for another form, another image.  
  
_My mind begins to recognize thy sway  
If I do burn, hast thou kindled the flame?  
Until I know for certain, I'm astray  
  
For thou art gone toward the seaward vale  
Yet I remain with questions I won't face  
If I do burn, hast thou kindled the flame?  
  
These wretched doubts have roots I cannot trace,  
That brings me much discomfort and distress;  
Yet I remain with questions I won't face  
  
And ask myself: what doth thy glance possess?  
A park of light! True mirror of thy sense  
That brings me much discomfort and distress;  
  
So thus examined by thy judging lens  
My pride's abashed. I wonder: do I care?  
A spark of light, true mirror of thy sense,  
  
Does this to me, who am the Steward's heir?  
My mind begins to recognize thy sway  
I'm almost willing to burn in this flare  
Until I know for certain, I'm astray._  
  
"Flare? To burn in a flare?"   
  
_The reason of my mind alerts desire  
Bewares that when there's feeling, flames go bright  
But mind and reason quail consumed by fire  
  
Passion, or virtue, would make one their Sire  
if something is surrendered under plight  
The reason of my mind alerts desire  
  
For scarce I've known a time of greater ire!  
when by thoughts, logic, sanity I'd fight  
But mind and reason quail consumed by fire  
  
Beneath logic's ice emotions conspire  
against the better judgement of my might  
The reason of my mind alerts desire  
  
And cares not of what lies and truth inquire,  
making the heart seek desperately for light  
But mind and reason quail consumed by fire  
  
Feeling and reason both great things require  
Should I, then, shun restraint without a fight?  
The reason of my mind alerts desire  
But mind and reason quail consumed by fire._  
  
Fire. There was another word with great meaning, but what did it mean to him? Water and Fire... Ah, if she knew just what she had caused, she would surely regret ever placing a foot in Minas Tirith- No, she would not regret it. He would not regret it.   
  
The room suddenly became dark and Denethor walked to the window to glance outside. A thick cloud was blocking what little light was in the sky and had left him with no clue as to what hour it was. He would have to wait then, as everybody else did, before he learned that it was time to depart, though he was not so eager to leave now: the answer he so much needed had not come to him, but ride away he had to, and soon. He grabbed the papers and scrolls by his desk and started to arrange them in neat stacks according to size and parchment color... What in blazes was he doing? Was he losing his mind? Reaching for his quill once again, he picked another leaf and scribbled a couplet.  
  
_I shall not be tormented by my thoughts  
But walk the path of reason, as I ought_  
  
_I shall not be tormented by my thoughts  
nor let such winds of feeling shake resolve  
but walk the path of reason, as I ought  
  
Nor let such winds of feeling shake resolve  
  
For doubts beset me, thinking that there's aught_  
  
"Resolve, solve, alcove..."  
  
His eyes were fixed on the words in front of him, but there was nothing else he could say, nothing else the words could tell him. Why, in the name of all the Valar, did he love, or want to love Finduilas? He would try for an answer yet another time.  
  
_The steadfastness of stone I like, and hate-  
The paths of mind and reasoning adore  
I tire of those who leave their lives to fate  
and sway like foamy waves upon the shore  
But now I see there's rhythm on the roll  
of waves, like there are patterns in the mind  
And my own mind delights in its new goal:  
To read what secrets in your depths I'd find  
Thus, gathering the clues you share and keep  
I'm building my own puzzle with your name  
"Who knows, but there is logic in this feat?"  
I try to cheat myself –to no avail.  
Reason my rule, but feeling my mistake  
Though right or wrong, 'tis well! I will partake._  
  
He sat, motionless, for a few seconds, the quill still pressed against the paper until a big blot of black ink had made a little pool, erasing the latest phrase or two. His eyes were wide, his jaw set, and his breathing shallow. Just then, he heard the horn blowing loud and clear and knew it was time to leave. Stuffing the papers inside a drawer, he quickly cleared his desk of every other object but the dark leather box and the ink bottle. He strode to the middle of the room, took the saddlebag and made for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob, walked back and wet the quill in ink again. The leather box gave him some trouble and he fumbled with the lock until he finally got it open, then drew a sheet of paper and wrote what must have been the most hasty, brief, devoid of any planning, heartfelt letter he had ever written:  
  
_29 Hísimë 2975,  
  
Dear Lady, I shall be on errand at Belfalas within the month. Pressing business must be discussed. Prince Adrahil may be able to inform you of the meetings and scheduled visits both him and the Steward have arranged for me: supervision of battlement posts and troop training, overseeing company supplies, assessment of the state of the fleets- ordinary inspections, of course, but hard work nonetheless as I am sure you know by having seen your father go through it for so many years. It would be most kind of you, and much according to my own wishes, if we could arrange for-  
  
I would like to see you again. As before. Denethor_  
  
For a moment he hesitated, his eyes focused on the last words of his letter. Then, suddenly he folded the parchment, put it in an envelope addressed to _Finduilas__ of Dol Amroth, Esq. Belfalas_ and was about to seal it with the brown wax, when he took it out and added below his signature:  
  
_The western wind makes billows in calm sea  
Who shall victorious be? Soon we shall see._  
  
Without pausing for a second reading, he sealed the letter, thrust it under his belt, and left.


End file.
